Sublime

The Old Man and the Sea,

best,” the chief says, as the other

(we make our own weather; personal gain ought to be a public asset)

gunshots spit through the dark. The sound track of the neighborhood was car stereos so loud they rattled the glass in house windows. Car alarms. Police sirens. None of that made Coyote feel any better about the prospect of someday sending his kid to the local schools.

I felt like an executor of his spiritual estate, parsing out wisdom or delight. And I wanted to be told the same kinds of stories.

unsullied.

arrhythmic

leery,

He still owned the family farm in northwestern Iowa, along with a few hundred thousand acres of adjoining land, which he was turning back into a tall-grass prairie, complete with herds of bison and real Indians who had discovered that riding around on horses hunting wild game was a better deal than pissing yourself in gutters in Minneapolis or Seat